


Shelter

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Some angst, Wing cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 01:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Aziraphale has a breakdown during a thunderstorm. Crowley shelters him.





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Periphyton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periphyton/gifts).

> Taken from this request by @periphyton: “Aziraphale needs shelter under Crowley’s wings. Comfort, can be some hurt first, cuddles, and an angel taking comfort and protection under a demon’s black wings.” 
> 
> If anyone has any other requests for fics, please leave a comment!

It’s the thunder that wakes Aziraphale, appropriately. He’s had the same nightmare for several days now, but usually it passes him by, fading to harmless memory by morning - this time the thunder wakes him in the middle of it, driving him gasping out of his sheets, bolt upright and staring out the window where rain lashes at the glass. 

_Floods. Flames. The rending of cities, of temples, of families. Swords and blood and screams. Wars, deadly wars. All created not by Hell, but by Heaven - all done in Her name._

Aziraphale checks the time. It’s quarter to two. He doesn’t think he’ll be getting back to sleep anytime soon, though - not with the thunder, every few minutes, bringing him violently back to the Flood and flinging his heart into his throat. 

Instead he climbs out of bed and creeps out into the hallway, quietly, so as not to disturb the bedroom’s other occupant. 

The bookshop is quiet, still, and familiar when he descends into its shelves. Aziraphale passes through sections of philosophy and philology and romance, and tries to feel safe in this trodden ground, this little nest he’s made just for him in a place Heaven has never understood enough to penetrate. He tries to lift his spirits gazing at the works of Kant and Wilde. But the rain pounds so hard against the walls it makes him feel he’s on a swaying ship. 

_So much death. So much pain. I was a part of it, I let it happen, I helped it happen sometimes. What is wrong with the world? What is wrong with me?_

And eventually he finds himself opening the door and venturing out into Soho’s rain-slicked streets. 

It’s been a few weeks since the almost-end of the world. Aziraphale has had a lot of time to ponder, something he hasn’t had the luxury for in quite a while. Something he hasn’t dared to do for longer. He’s begun to do the unthinkable - ask questions, entertain his doubts. And it’s led him down holes he’d rather never have seen the insides of. 

_God, was this really Your plan?_

That’s his most dangerous one, and yet, when he thinks of the forces of Heaven so ready for war, for destruction, for the end of all Aziraphale has held dear on Earth for six thousand years, he can’t help wondering if a loving God could really have condoned it. 

It rains hard. Aziraphale is drenched in minutes as he ambles over the empty sidewalk; he could use a miracle to keep himself dry, but he doesn’t feel up to it, somehow. He feels remarkably frail here in this new reality, without the power of archangels at his back. Without the certainty of Heaven’s absolute moral correctness to shave from his mind all qualms and fears. Without his own self-righteousness, he feels laid bare before the universe. It’s an unpleasant feeling. 

_I want to be good. I really, really do. Please believe me when I say I tried._

Perhaps the even more forbidden question: is anyone listening? 

Thunder peals overhead and Aziraphale shivers. The world seems so much more hostile to him now than it did before. If he’s really dedicated himself to living forever here on Earth, no longer doing Heaven’s bidding but having to decide for himself what to do, how will he manage it? How will he keep from being overwhelmed by this vast and terrifying unknown? What can he cling to, when everything seems upside-down? 

Angels are supposed to be bedrocks. Guardians. But Aziraphale is adrift. 

_God, if You’re there, if You can hear me, if You still love me and think I’m doing the right thing, will You send me a sign?_

And that’s when it happens. The rain that’s been falling into his curls, dripping down his head over the back of his neck, abruptly cuts off. Aziraphale blinks - for a wild moment he thinks the rain has stopped - before turning at the sound of a breath beside him. 

Crowley is there. Fully dressed, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on and head not fully turned toward Aziraphale, so Aziraphale can’t quite tell if he’s looking at him or at the sidewalk ahead. Somewhere in a world not quite visible to human eyes, large black wings have unfolded from his back. One is hovering, now, over Aziraphale. Protecting him. 

Emotions rise up hot and sweet within Aziraphale’s throat. “Crowley.” 

“Hey, angel.” Crowley’s voice could almost be casual, but the gentleness in it belies his nonchalance. “Pretty bad night to pick for a walk.” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Aziraphale offers, by flimsy way of explanation. 

“Hm.” 

Aziraphale stands still, his eyes turned down toward the sidewalk. Crowley stands beside him. The rain falls thick and fast on Crowley’s wings, but Aziraphale feels none of it; Aziraphale is covered. For a moment it’s difficult to breathe. 

“Want to talk about it?” Crowley asks at last. 

Aziraphale sniffs. “I’m scared.” 

“Of?” 

“All of this.” 

Slowly, slowly, Crowley steps closer. He reaches out a hand and lays it on Aziraphale’s shoulder. The touch is warm, calming, comforting in a way that should be impossible for such a tiny gesture of affection. 

“Are you scared of me?” he asks. 

Aziraphale shakes his head, tears leaking from his eyes. “Not you. Never you. You’re - you’re the only thing I’m not scared of now.” 

And Crowley pulls him tenderly into his arms, wings wrapping around him completely, cocooning him in a nest of soft black feathers. Aziraphale shuts his eyes and leans into it, gripping the front of Crowley’s shirt, pressing his head to Crowley’s chest, shuddering. Crowley hugs him tighter to anchor him. 

“It’s all right,” Crowley murmurs. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.” 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, and his voice breaks as tears track down his cheeks. “Thank you, Crowley, thank you for waiting for me, thank you for saving me, thank you -”

“Shhhh.” Crowley sways slightly, side to side, taking Aziraphale with him in a gentle rocking motion. “Shhh. Angel, I love you.” 

“I love you too.” The words are a sob. 

It’s a long time before Aziraphale finally feels ready to move, and Crowley leads him back to the bookshop, still sheltering him under his wide black wings. But in that walk back Aziraphale is reminded of other things, other memories, beyond the terrible ones that have haunted his nights - Crowley’s laughter across tables from him, his drunken banter between bookshelves, his burning feet in a church, the snap of his fingers that released Aziraphale’s wrists from chains in the Bastille. He’s reminded of sunlit afternoons spent feeding ducks, and easy, carefree conversations, and a world lit up with love he’s only now truly starting to enjoy. And he’s reminded of why he chose this life, messy, confusing, frightening as it is. 

“You’re so good to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley smiles fondly at him. “S’pose I’m not so bad.” 

He’s chosen love. God knows, Aziraphale thinks with a smile of his own, God knows that’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my work? Find me on tumblr @whatawriterwields!


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